Chapter 2

He's fetched him in, he's laid him low, Drips his lifeblood red and slow, Darkens his dreary eye, O; "Here is your beast, And now at least My herds in peace shall lie, O."

"'In peace!' my lord, O mark me well! For what my jolly hound befell You shall sup twenty-fold, O! For every tooth Of his, in sooth, A stag in pawn, I hold, O.

"Huntsman and horn, huntsman and horn, Shall scour your heaths and coverts lorn, Braying 'em shrill and clear, O; But lone and still Shall lift each hill, Each valley wan and sere, O.

"Ride up you may, ride down you may, Lonely or trooped, by night or day, My hound shall haunt you ever: Bird, beast, and game Shall dread the same, The wild fish of your river."

Her cheek burns angry as the rose, Her eye with wrath and pity flows: He gazes fierce and round, O-- "Dear Lord!" he says, "What loveliness To waste upon a hound, O.

"I'd give my stags, my hills and dales, My stormcocks and my nightingales To have undone this deed, O; For deep beneath My heart is death Which for her love doth bleed, O."

He wanders up, he wanders down, On foot, a-horse, by night and noon: His lands are bleak and drear, O; Forsook his dales Of nightingales, Forsook his moors of deer, O,

Forsook his heart, ah me! of mirth; There's nothing gladsome left on earth; All thoughts and dreams seem vain, O, Save where remote The moonbeams gloat, And sleeps the lovely Jane, O.

Until an even when lone he went, Gnawing his beard in dreariment-- Lo! from a thicket hidden, Lovely as flower In April hour, Steps forth a form unbidden.

"Get ye now down, my lord, to me! I'm troubled so I'm like to dee," She cries, 'twixt joy and grief, O; "The hound is dead, When all is said, But love is past belief, O.

"Nights, nights I've lain your lands to see, Forlorn and still--and all for me, All for a foolish curse, O; Now here am I Come out to die-- To live unloved is worse, O!"

In faith, this lord, in that lone dale, Hears now a sweeter nightingale, And lairs a tenderer deer, O; His sorrow goes Like mountain snows In waters sweet and clear, O!

What ghostly hound is this that fleet Comes fawning to his mistress' feet, And courses round his master? How swiftly love May grief remove, How happy make disaster!

Now here he smells, now there he smells, Winding his voice along the dells, Till grey flows up the morn, O Then hies again To Lady Jane No longer now forlorn, O.

Ay, as it were a bud, did break To loveliness for her love's sake, So she in beauty moving Rides at his hand Across his land, Beloved as well as loving.

AS LUCY WENT A-WALKING

As Lucy went a-walking one morning cold and fine, There sate three crows upon a bough, and three times three is nine: Then "O!" said Lucy, in the snow, "it's very plain to see A witch has been a-walking in the fields in front of me."

Then slept she light and heedfully across the frozen snow, And plucked a bunch of elder-twigs that near a pool did grow: And, by and by, she comes to seven shadows in one place Stretched black by seven poplar-trees against the sun's bright face.

She looks to left, she looks to right, and in the midst she sees A little pool of water clear and frozen 'neath the trees; Then down beside its margent in the crusty snow she kneels, And hears a magic belfry a-ringing with sweet bells.

Clear sang the faint far merry peal, then silence on the air, And icy-still the frozen pool and poplars standing there: Then lo! as Lucy turned her head and looked along the snow She sees a witch--a witch she sees, come frisking to and fro.

Her scarlet, buckled shoes they clicked, her heels a-twinkling high; With mistletoe her steeple-hat bobbed as she capered by; But never a dint, or mark, or print, in the whiteness for to see, Though danced she high, though danced she fast, though danced she lissomely.

It seemed 'twas diamonds in the air, or little flakes of frost; It seemed 'twas golden smoke around, or sunbeams lightly tossed; It seemed an elfin music like to reeds and warblers rose: "Nay!" Lucy said, "it is the wind that through the branches flows."

And as she peeps, and as she peeps, 'tis no more one, but three, And eye of bat, and downy wing of owl within the tree, And the bells of that sweet belfry a-pealing as before, And now it is not three she sees, and now it is not four--

"O! who are ye," sweet Lucy cries, "that in a dreadful ring, All muffled up in brindled shawls, do caper, frisk, and spring?" "A witch, and witches, one and nine," they straight to her reply, And looked upon her narrowly, with green and needle eye.

Then Lucy sees in clouds of gold green cherry trees upgrow, And bushes of red roses that bloomed above the snow; She smells, all faint, the almond-boughs blowing so wild and fair, And doves with milky eyes ascend fluttering in the air.

Clear flowers she sees, like tulip buds, go floating by like birds, With wavering tips that warbled sweetly strange enchanted words; And, as with ropes of amethyst, the boughs with lamps were hung, And clusters of green emeralds like fruit upon them clung.

"O witches nine, ye dreadful nine, O witches seven and three! Whence come these wondrous things that I this Christmas morning see?" But straight, as in a clap, when she of Christmas says the word, Here is the snow, and there the sun, but never bloom nor bird;

Nor warbling flame, nor gloaming-rope of amethyst there shows, Nor bunches of green emeralds, nor belfry, well, and rose, Nor cloud of gold, nor cherry-tree, nor witch in brindled shawl, But like a dream that vanishes, so vanished were they all.

When Lucy sees, and only sees three crows upon a bough, And earthly twigs, and bushes hidden white in driven snow, Then "O!" said Lucy, "three times three is nine--I plainly see Some witch has been a-walking in the fields in front of me."

THE ENGLISHMAN

I met a sailor in the woods, A silver ring wore he, His hair hung black, his eyes shone blue, And thus he said to me:--

"What country, say, of this round earth, What shore of what salt sea, Be this, my son, I wander in, And looks so strange to me?"

Says I, "O foreign sailorman, In England now you be, This is her wood, and there her sky, And that her roaring sea."

He lifts his voice yet louder, "What smell be this," says he, "My nose on the sharp morning air Snuffs up so greedily?"

Says I, "It is wild roses Do smell so winsomely, And winy briar, too," says I, "That in these thickets be."

"And oh!" says he, "what leetle bird Is singing in yon high tree, So every shrill and long-drawn note Like bubbles breaks in me?"

Says I, "It is the mavis That perches in the tree, And sings so shrill, and sings so sweet, When dawn comes up the sea."

At which he fell a-musing, And fixed his eye on me, As one alone 'twixt light and dark A spirit thinks to see.

"England!" he whispers soft and harsh, "England!" repeated he, "And briar, and rose, and mavis, A-singing in yon high tree.

"Ye speak me true, my leetle son, So--so, it came to me, A-drifting landwards on a spar, And grey dawn on the sea.

"Ay, ay, I could not be mistook; I knew them leafy trees, I knew that land so witchery sweet, And that old noise of seas.

"Though here I've sailed a score of years, And heard 'em, dream or wake, Lap small and hollow 'gainst my cheek, On sand and coral break;

"'Yet now,' my leetle son, says I, A-drifting on the wave, 'That land I see so safe and green, Is England, I believe.

"'And that there wood is English wood, And this here cruel sea, The selfsame old blue ocean Years gone remembers me.

"'A-sitting with my bread and butter Down ahind yon chitterin' mill; And this same Marinere'--(that's me), 'Is that same leetle Will!--

"'That very same wee leetle Will Eating his bread and butter there, A-looking on the broad blue sea Betwixt his yaller hair!'

"And here be I, my son, thrown up Like corpses from the sea, Ships, stars, winds, tempests, pirates past, Yet leetle Will I be!"

He said no more, that sailorman, But in a reverie Stared like the figure of a ship With painted eyes to sea.

THE PHANTOM

"Upstairs in the large closet, child, This side the blue room door, Is an old Bible, bound in leather, Standing upon the floor;

"Go with this taper, bring it me; Carry it so, upon your arm; It is the book on many a sea Hath stilled the waves' alarm."

Late the hour, dark the night, The house is solitary; Feeble is a taper's light To light poor Ann to see.

Her eyes are yet with visions bright Of sylph and river, flower and fay, Now through a narrow corridor She goes her lonely way.

Vast shadows on the heedless walls Gigantic loom, stoop low: Each little hasty footfall calls Hollowly to and fro.

In the cold solitude her heart Remembers sorrowfully White winters when her mother was Her loving company.

Now in the dark clear glass she sees A taper, mocking hers,-- A phantom face of light blue eyes, Reflecting phantom fears.

Around her loom the vacant rooms, Wind the upward stairs, She climbs on into a loneliness Only her taper shares.

Out in the dark a cold wind stirs, At every window sighs; A waning moon peers small and chill From out the cloudy skies,

Casting faint tracery on the walls; So stony still the house From cellar to attic rings the shrill Squeak of the hungry mouse.

Her grandmother is deaf with age; A garden of moonless trees Would answer not though she should cry In anguish on her knees.

So that she scarce can breathe--so fast Her pent up heart doth beat-- When, faint along the corridor, Falleth the sound of feet:--

Sounds lighter than silk slippers make Upon a ballroom floor, when sweet Violin and 'cello wake Music for twirling feet.

O! 'neath an old unfriendly roof, What shapes may not conceal Their faces in the open day, At night abroad to steal?

Even her taper seems with fear To languish small and blue; Far in the woods the winter wind Runs whistling through.

A dreadful cold plucks at each hair, Her mouth is stretched to cry, But sudden, with a gush of joy, It narrows to a sigh.

It is a phantom child which comes Soft through the corridor, Singing an old forgotten song, This ancient burden bore:--

"Thorn, thorn, I wis, And roses twain, A red rose and a white, Stoop in the blossom, bee, and kiss A lonely child good-night.

"Swim fish, sing bird, And sigh again, I that am lost am lone, Bee in the blossom never stirred Locks hid beneath a stone!"--

Her eye was of the azure fire That hovers in wintry flame; Her raiment wild and yellow as furze That spouteth out the same;

And in her hand she bore no flower, But on her head a wreath Of faded flowers that did yet Smell sweetly after death....

Gloomy with night the listening walls Are now that she is gone, Albeit this solitary child No longer seems alone.

Fast though her taper dwindles down, Heavy and thick the tome, A beauty beyond fear to dim Haunts now her alien home.

Ghosts in the world, malignant, grim, Vex many a wood and glen, And house and pool--the unquiet ghosts, Of dead and restless men.

But in her grannie's house this spirit-- A child as lone as she-- Pining for love not found on earth, Ann dreams again to see.

Seated upon her tapestry stool, Her fairy-book laid by, She gazes into the fire, knowing She has sweet company.

THE MILLER AND HIS SON

A twangling harp for Mary, A silvery flute for John, And now we'll play, the livelong day, "The Miller and his Son."...

"The Miller went a-walking All in the forest high, He sees three doves a-flitting Against the dark blue sky:

"Says he, 'My son, now follow These doves so white and free, That cry above the forest, And surely cry to thee.'

"'I go, my dearest Father, But O! I sadly fear, These doves so white will lead me far, But never bring me near.'

"He kisses the Miller, He cries, 'Awhoop to ye!' And straightway through the forest Follows the wood-doves three.

"There came a sound of weeping To the Miller in his Mill: Red roses in a thicket Bloomed over near his wheel;

"Three stars shone wild and brightly Above the forest dim: But never his dearest son Returns again to him.

"The cuckoo shall call 'Cuckoo!' In vain along the vale-- The linnet, and the blackbird, The mournful nightingale;

"The Miller hears and sees not, Thinking of his son; His toppling wheel is silent; His grinding done.

"'You doves so white,' he weepeth, 'You roses on the tree, You stars that shine so brightly, You shine in vain for me!

"'I bade him follow, follow!' He said, 'O Father dear, These doves so white will lead me far But never bring me near.'"...

A twangling harp for Mary, A silvery flute for John, And now we'll play, the livelong day, "The Miller and his Son."

DOWN-ADOWN-DERRY

Down-adown-derry, Sweet Annie Maroon, Gathering daisies In the meadows of Doone, Hears a shrill piping, Elflike and free, Where the waters go brawling In rills to the sea; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, Sweet Annie Maroon, Through the green grasses Peeps softly; and soon Spies under green willows A fairy whose song Like the smallest of bubbles Floats bobbing along; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, Her cheeks were like wine, Her eyes in her wee face Like water-sparks shine, Her niminy fingers Her sleep tresses preen, The which in the combing She peeps out between; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, Shrill, shrill was her tune:-- "Come to my water-house, Annie Maroon: Come in your dimity, Ribbon on head, To wear siller seaweed And coral instead"; Singing down-adown-derry.

"Down-adown-derry, Lean fish of the sea, Bring lanthorns for feasting The gay Faërie; 'Tis sand for the dancing, A music all sweet In the water-green gloaming For thistledown feet"; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, Sweet Annie Maroon Looked large on the fairy Curled wan as the moon; And all the grey ripples To the Mill racing by, With harps and with timbrels Did ringing reply; Singing down-adown-derry.

"Down-adown-derry," Sang the Fairy of Doone, Piercing the heart Of sweet Annie Maroon; And lo! when like roses The clouds of the sun Faded at dusk, gone Was Annie Maroon; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, The daisies are few; Frost twinkles powdery In haunts of the dew; And only the robin Perched on a thorn, Can comfort the heart Of a father forlorn; Singing down-adown-derry.

Down-adown-derry, There's snow in the air; Ice where the lily Bloomed waxen and fair; He may call o'er the water, Cry--cry through the Mill, But Annie Maroon, alas! Answer ne'er will; Singing down-adown-derry.

THE SUPPER

A wolf he pricks with eyes of fire Across the night's o'ercrusted snows. Seeking his prey, He pads his way Where Jane benighted goes, Where Jane benighted goes.

He curdles the bleak air with ire, Ruffling his hoary raiment through, And lo! he sees Beneath the trees Where Jane's light footsteps go, Where Jane's light footsteps go.

No hound peals thus in wicked joy, He snaps his muzzle in the snows, His five-clawed feet Do scamper fleet Where Jane's bright lanthorn shows, Where Jane's bright lanthorn shows.

Now his greed's green doth gaze unseen On a pure face of wilding rose, Her amber eyes In fear's surprise Watch largely as she goes, Watch largely as she goes.

Salt wells his hunger in his jaws, His lust it revels to and fro, Yet small beneath A soft voice saith, "Jane shall in safety go, Jane shall in safety go."

He lurched as if a fiery lash Had scourged his hide, and through and through His furious eyes O'erscanned the skies, But nearer dared not go, But nearer dared not go.

He reared like wild Bucephalus, His fangs like spears in him uprose, Even to the town Jane's flitting gown He grins on as she goes, He grins on as she goes.

In fierce lament he howls amain, He scampers, marvelling in his throes What brought him there To sup on air, While Jane unharmèd goes, While Jane unharmèd goes.

THE ISLE OF LONE

Three dwarfs there were which lived in an isle, And the name of that Isle was Lone, And the names of the dwarfs were Alliolyle, Lallerie, Muziomone.

Alliolye was green of een, Lallerie light of locks, Muziomone was mild of mien, As ewes in April flocks.

Their house was small and sweet of the sea, And pale as the Malmsey wine; Their bowls were three, and their beds were three, And their nightcaps white were nine.

Their beds they were made of the holly-wood, Their combs of the tortoise's shell, Three basins of silver in corners there stood, And three little ewers as well.

Green rushes, green rushes lay thick on the floor, For light beamed a gobbet of wax; There were three wooden stools for whatever they wore On their humpity-dumpity backs.

So each would lie on a drowsy pillow And watch the moon in the sky-- And hear the parrot scream to the billow, The billow roar reply:

Parrots of sapphire and sulphur and amber, Scarlet, and flame, and green, While five-foot apes did scramble and clamber, In the feathery-tufted treen.

All night long with bubbles a-glisten The ocean cried under the moon, Till ape and parrot, too sleepy to listen, To sleep and slumber were gone.

Then from three small beds the dark hours' while In a house in the Island of Lone Rose the snoring of Lallerie, Alliolyle, The snoring of Muziomone.

But soon as ever came peep of sun On coral and feathery tree, Three night-capped dwarfs to the surf would run And soon were a-bob in the sea.

At six they went fishing, at nine they snared Young foxes in the dells, At noon on sweet berries and honey they fared, And blew in their twisted shells.

Dark was the sea they gambolled in, And thick with silver fish, Dark as green glass blown clear and thin To be a monarch's dish.

They sate to sup in a jasmine bower, Lit pale with flies of fire, Their bowls the hue of the iris-flower, And lemon their attire.

Sweet wine in little cups they sipped, And golden honeycomb Into their bowls of cream they dipped, Whipt light and white as foam.

Now Alliolyle, where the sand-flower blows, Taught three old apes to sing-- Taught three old apes to dance on their toes And caper around in a ring.

They yelled them hoarse and they croaked them sweet, They twirled them about and around, To the noise of their voices they danced with their feet, They stamped with their feet on the ground.

But down to the shore skipped Lallerie, His parrot on his thumb, And the twain they scotched in mockery, While the dancers go and come.

And, alas! in the evening, rosy and still, Light-haired Lallerie Bitterly quarrelled with Alliolyle By the yellow-sanded sea.

The rising moon swam sweet and large Before their furious eyes, And they rolled and rolled to the coral marge Where the surf for ever cries.

Too late, too late, comes Muziomone: Clear in the clear green sea Alliolyle lies not alone, But clasped with Lallerie.

He blows on his shell plaintiff notes; Ape, parraquito, bee Flock where a shoe on the salt wave floats,-- The shoe of Lallerie.

He fetches nightcaps, one and nine, Grey apes he dowers three, His house as fair as the Malmsey wine Seems sad as cypress-tree.

Three bowls he brims with sweet honeycomb To feast the bumble bees, Saying, "O bees, be this your home, For grief is on the seas!"

He sate him lone in a coral grot, At the flowing in of the tide; When ebbed the billow, there was not, Save coral, aught beside.

So hairy apes in three white beds, And nightcaps, one and nine, On moonlit pillows lay three heads Bemused with dwarfish wine.

A tomb of coral, the dirge of bee, The grey apes' guttural groan For Alliolyle, for Lallerie, For thee, O Muziomone!

SLEEPING BEAUTY

The scent of bramble fills the air, Amid her folded sheets she lies, The gold of evening in her hair, The blue of morn shut in her eyes.

How many a changing moon hath lit The unchanging roses of her face! Her mirror ever broods on it In silver stillness of the days.

Oft flits the moth on filmy wings Into his solitary lair; Shrill evensong the cricket sings From some still shadow in her hair.

In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood, She sleeps in lovely loneliness, Half-folded like an April bud On winter-haunted trees.

THE HORN

Hark! is that a horn I hear, In cloudland winding sweet-- And bell-like clash of bridle-rein, And silver-shod light feet?

Is it the elfin laughter Of fairies riding faint and high, Beneath the branches of the moon, Straying through the starry sky?

Is it in the globèd dew Such sweet melodies may fall? Wood and valley--all are still, Hushed the shepherd's call.

CAPTAIN LEAN

Out of the East a hurricane Swept down on Captain Lean-- That mariner and gentleman Will never again be seen.

He sailed his ship against the foes Of his own country dear, But now in the trough of the billows An aimless course doth steer.

Powder was violets to his nostrils, Sweet the din of the fighting-line, Now he is flotsam on the seas, And his bones are bleached with brine.

The stars move up along the sky, The moon she shines so bright, And in that solitude the foam Sparkles unearthly white.

This is the tomb of Captain Lean, Would a straiter please his soul? I trow he sleeps in peace, Howsoever the billows roll!

THE PORTRAIT OF A WARRIOR

His brow is seamed with line and scar; His cheek is red and dark as wine; The fires as of a Northern star Beneath his cap of sable shine.

His right hand, bared of leathern glove, Hangs open like an iron gin, You stoop to see his pulses move, To hear the blood sweep out and in.

He looks some king, so solitary In earnest thought he seems to stand, As if across a lonely sea He gazed impatient of the land.

Out of the noisy centuries The foolish and the fearful fade; Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes, Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed.

HAUNTED

From out the wood I watched them shine,-- The windows of the haunted house, Now ruddy as enchanted wine, Now dark as flittermouse.

There went a thin voice piping airs Along the grey and crooked walks,-- A garden of thistledown and tares, Bright leaves, and giant stalks.

The twilight rain shone at its gates, Where long-leaved grass in shadow grew; And black in silence to her mates A voiceless raven flew.

Lichen and moss the lone stones greened, Green paths led lightly to its door, Keen from her hair the spider leaned, And dusk to darkness wore.

Amidst the sedge a whisper ran, The West shut down a heavy eye, And like last tapers, few and wan, The watch-stars kindled in the sky.

THE RAVEN'S TOMB

"Build me my tomb," the Raven said, "Within the dark yew-tree, So in the Autumn yewberries Sad lamps may burn for me. Summon the haunted beetle, From twilight bud and bloom, To drone a gloomy dirge for me At dusk above my tomb. Beseech ye too the glowworm To rear her cloudy flame, Where the small, flickering bats resort, Whistling in tears my name. Let the round dew a whisper make, Welling on twig and thorn; And only the grey cock at night Call through his silver horn. And you, dear sisters, don your black For ever and a day, To show how true a raven In his tomb is laid away."

THE CHRISTENING

The bells chime clear, Soon will the sun behind the hills sink down; Come, little Ann, your baby brother dear Lies in his christening-gown.

His godparents, Are all across the fields stepped on before, And wait beneath the crumbling monuments, This side the old church door.